


Hale Sandwich

by DiscontentedWinter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Creeper Peter, Knotting, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, but in a good way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-13 06:44:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4511913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscontentedWinter/pseuds/DiscontentedWinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's exactly what it says on the box.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

Stiles has never been so cold in his life. He’s so cold he’s not even shivering, and he knows that’s not a good thing. That’s what Derek’s saying, maybe; Stiles can hear his increasingly worried tone as he speaks, but he can’t actually make out any of the words. It’s like he’s underwater still.

It should be funny.

It’s not funny.

Maybe it is.

Stiles blinks, and tries to remember what he was thinking about. He can’t.

He blinks again, and his vision grays out.

That seems like something he should be worried about.

Also, he can’t feel his hands.

And then he can’t feel _anything_.

 

***

 

Of everything that could have gone wrong tonight, this didn’t even make Peter’s list. He likes to think he can plan for every eventuality, but Stiles is nothing if not surprising. Still, when Derek had managed to distract the wendigo and Peter had dived in and torn its throat out, that should have been the most perilous part of the night done with, right? Except guess which irritating little human had to find a random disused well, and fall straight through the rotted cover into fifteen feet of freezing black water? In December? On one of the incredibly rare nights that it’s actually snowing in Beacon Hills?

Well, not _in_ Beacon Hills. If they were in Beacon Hills, they’d be fine. Instead, they’re about forty miles north of Beacon Hills, the aforementioned wendigo ripped the engine out of their car, and now Stiles is rapidly succumbing to hypothermia. And Derek, even if nobody would know it to look at him, is rapidly succumbing to panic. He might look as sour and unimpressed as always, but Peter can smell the fear curdling his nephew’s scent.

“We passed a cabin on the way in here,” Peter says, keeping his voice calm. “We’ll take him there.”

Peter leads the way as Derek carries Stiles.

The cabin is a mile or two away. It doesn’t take long to get there. It’s someone’s fishing cabin, Peter thinks, although it smells stale enough that he knows nobody’s been here for months. Perfect. He breaks the lock on the door easily enough.

The place is small but comfortable. It’s a single room, not much on amenities, but beggars can’t be choosers. There’s a bed with musty-smelling covers. There’s a bookcase with a few dog-eared paperbacks, and a photograph of some beaming fool with a big dead fish. There’s a fireplace, and the owner—probably Big Dead Fish Guy—was kind enough to leave firewood as well. That’s good. Stiles can use the heat. Peter starts the fire while Derek just stands there like a lump, still holding Stiles. Stiles is pale and unresponsive.

“Jesus,” Peter says, a growl rising in his throat. “Don’t you know anything about humans? Get his clothes off, now.”

“What?” Derek lowers Stiles gently to his feet, holding him close still. Stiles mumbles something, and Peter sags a little in relief. He’s still with them, more or less.

He glares at Derek. “He’s got hypothermia. Get his clothes off him.”

Derek gapes, looking as surprised as the big dead fish.

Then Stiles surprises them both by giggling.

 

***

 

“Get his clothes off him,” someone says, and Stiles giggles and slaps at the hands fumbling at the fly of his jeans.

“Nuh uh,” he says. “Buy me a drink first.”

“Stiles Stilinski,” the voice says again, and ohhhh, it’s Peter. Creepy Peter. Creepy but hot Peter. “You little tease.”

“Peter!” Derek snaps.

“Omigod,” Stiles says, because suddenly he’s not wearing pants. “Uh oh.”

Then his wet hoodie and shirt are being peeled off him as well, and Stiles doesn’t really know what’s going on. He’s vaguely concerned because he thought that the first time this happened he’d be enjoying it a lot more. And also that there’d be fewer people involved. It’s okay though. He’ll just roll with the punches or whatever.

His shoes and socks are next, and yeah, he’s totally naked now.

“Peter,” he says, reaching out for the man in front of him and somehow missing. “Am I okay? Am I hot?”

He can hear the smile in Peter’s voice. “Delectable, darling.”

“Peter!” Derek snaps again.

“What?” Peter sounds hurt.

Stiles giggles again. Nobody does that whole wounded innocence shtick like Peter. Which is hilarious, because he’s so, so far away from innocence that he probably can’t even see it from whatever black shore of moral decrepitude he’s beached himself on. Yet somehow he can still sound like an angel.

Stiles likes that.

It’s kinda hot.

Actually, it’s totally hot. Peter would be totally filthy and depraved, in a really good way.

Derek is…

Derek is complicated.

Also, Derek is currently crowding against Stiles’s back, and holy shit, he’s naked too. There’s a lot of skin pressing against Stiles. Lot of bare skin, and muscles, and other bits. So maybe that filthy depravity runs in the Hale family or something, which, okay, is not something Stiles has thought about.

Much.

Okay, he’s _thought_ about it. Lotta times. Lotta special alone times.

But it’s not like he’s thought about Peter and Derek at the _same_ time, in the same scenario. Which, really, why not? He’s kind of disappointed in his own lack of imagination.

Stiles blinks as Peter’s annoying hot face comes into focus.

“Stiles?”

“Mmm?” He arches away from Derek toward Peter.

“Let’s get you on the bed, okay?”

“’kay.”

Gravity shifts, and suddenly Stiles is lying on the bed—there’s a bed?—and _everyone_ is naked, that’s a thing that is apparently happening, and Stiles is pretty sure things are about to start feeling really good any second now, except he’s actually kind of tired, and he can’t feel his body, and if he can't feel his body then how can he tell if he’s got a boner or not? He can’t really feel Peter or Derek’s bodies either, and he’s a bit aggrieved by that. But he’s mostly tired.

“Nooo,” he mumbles. “Wanna stay awake for the Hale sandwich.”

The last thing he hears before he slips into unconsciousness is Peter’s surprised laugh.

 

***

 

He wakes up hot.

He’s covered in an itchy blanket.

No.

No, that’s not right.

Stiles peels his eyes open.

He’s actually wedged between two wolves. _Wolves_. Two fully shifted wolves. They’re big. One is black. One is brown. They’re big. He thought that already, right? Doesn’t matter, because it actually bears thinking twice. The muzzle of the brown wolf, pressed against his throat, could very, very easily snap his scrawny little neck. It’s fucking huge.

Stiles shifts a little and the black wolf snorts.

Stiles turns his head, and finds himself staring into its very red eyes. Derek.

He wriggles, and Derek gives him a warning growl.

“I’m hot,” Stiles mutters, and tries to shove Derek off him.

Derek growls again. He’s pressed so tightly to Stiles’s back that Stiles rumbles with the vibrations of the growl.

“I’m hot!”

Derek bares his teeth.

Stiles gives up and goes back to sleep.

He was only dreaming he was naked, right?

 

***

 

Derek shifts back to his human form some time before dawn. Stiles is still wedged between him and Peter, one arm slung over Peter, his fingers curled through the long hair of his ruff. He’s breathing okay. Snoring a little, actually. Derek presses his nose against the back of Stiles’s neck and inhales. Stiles smells a little off, the way he does when he’s carrying some small injury that’s annoying him. There’s a faint sourness to his scent that Derek knows means sickness, but he’s not too concerned. It’s almost faded now, and it was a hell of a lot worse last night. Stiles is warm, and his heartbeat is steady.

Derek’s hand is resting on Stiles’s hip. He tells himself the only reason he doesn’t move it is that he doesn’t want to wake Stiles. He tells himself that’s the only reason he doesn’t climb out of the bed either.

There are plenty of things he should be doing. He should be checking their clothes—laid out in front of the fireplace—are dry. He should be seeing if there’s any food or water in the cabin. And, if not, he should be heading outside to get some. There’s a small lake close by, and he could sniff out a rabbit or two, and collect some more firewood. He could have the water boiled and the rabbits cooking on the fire by the time Stiles even wakes up.

The thought of it both warms him and horrifies him.

Oh Jesus. He wants to _provide_ for Stiles. He can actually imagine himself beaming proudly as he hands over a brace of dead rabbits and, because this is his fantasy, Stiles doesn’t even look faintly disgusted. Instead, he smiles, delighted, and thanks Derek with the sort of quiet sincerity that, honestly, Derek has never seen Stiles display in all the time he’s known him. Sincere? Sure. Quiet? Fuck no. Derek needs to work on the quality of his fantasies, or at least learn to better suspend his disbelief.

And he really, really should get out of bed.

Not just because he could be doing things, but also because the blankets smell faintly like old Bengay and mothballs.

Then Stiles sighs deeply in his sleep, and Derek can’t even think about moving yet.

He’s too comfortable here with Stiles.

 

***

 

Peter shifts back to his human form as he stretches awake and opens his eyes.

Well, well, well.

It’s not every morning that he wakes up to something quite so pretty. And Stiles is certainly pretty. It’s not like he’s never noticed before. Peter has eyes. It’s just that usually Stiles is in such a flurry of frantic motion that Peter hasn’t ever been afforded the opportunity to observe him quite so closely. Asleep, he’s really very lovely. And, sure, Peter would enjoy it a hell of a lot more if Derek wasn’t crashed out while plastered to the poor unfortunate boy’s back, but he’ll take it. He can just pretend Derek’s not here. It’s incredibly easy to do, actually. Peter’s been practicing ignoring Derek for years.

Stiles’s dark lashes lie against his mole-dotted cheeks. He snuffles, like a puppy dreaming of chasing a squirrel, and his mouth quirks. He has a gorgeous mouth. Peter has often wondered if the only way to shut it up is to shove something in it—his tongue, perhaps, or perhaps something a little more substantial—and he raises a hand and gently traces his thumb against the arch of that perfect Cupid’s bow. Then against Stiles’s full bottom lip, testing the drag. He’s delighted when Stiles’s tongue darts out and briefly touches his thumb before disappearing again.

Oh yes. The things he could do with that mouth.

A low warning growl tells him that Derek’s awake.

He meets his nephew’s narrow gaze above the curve of Stiles’s shoulder. “What?” he whispers.

“Peter.” Derek’s tone is low and threatening.

Peter rolls his eyes, and makes a show of moving his hand away again. He’s immediately gratified when Stiles smacks his lips and frowns a little in his sleep. Somebody has an oral fixation. Peter could help him out with that.

Derek growls again, and Peter sighs.

His nephew is no fun at all.

 

***

 

Stiles wakes up hot. He wriggles, and hears a sharp intake of breath from somewhere very close behind him. His eyes flash open, and sweet holy baby Jebus, Peter Hale is grinning at him.

“Good morning, princess.”

Stiles opens his mouth to say something. A kind of a squawk comes out instead. Because he’s naked. And Peter looks like he might be naked under the blanket too, and that is twice as much nakedness as Stiles is comfortable dealing with first thing in the morning. Or, honestly, at any time. Because it’s _Peter_. Peter _Hale_. What the hell even happened last night that he’s naked in bed with an also very naked _Peter_?

Stiles pushes back, away from Peter.

God, why couldn’t it at least have been—

He hits another body. Another naked body, and twists his head.

“Derek! Jesus! Oh my fucking god.” Stiles is _this_ close to freaking out. _This_ close. Why the hell is everyone _naked_? How the fuck did this happen? “Did I get _drunk_?”

“Why?” Peter asks. “Do you think you’d need to be drunk to get into bed with us?”

Stiles gapes at him for a second, because there is no way in hell he knows how to answer that question.

“Stiles,” Derek says, glaring at Peter. “You had hypothermia.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, and suddenly remembers waking up in the middle of the night between two wolves. “ _Oh_.”

Is it weird that a part of him is actually a little disappointed?

Yeah, it’s weird.

For a second there he actually thought he had game.

“Um, okay then,” he says, because the longer this drags on the more awkward it’s going to get. He mentioned everyone was naked, right? And that’s when it happens. Of course it does. He’s in a bed between two hot naked men, so yeah, okay, his dick wakes up. It took a little longer than the rest of him, but there is it, popping up to say hello and jabbing Peter Hale in the thigh.

Peter smiles at him, and Stiles’s face burns.

“I’ll just, um,” he says, but he’s got nowhere else to go. If he turns around, he’ll just slap Derek with his morning wood instead. And then it doesn’t even matter, because Derek _sniffs_ , and Stiles knows he can smell his arousal, and how is that even fair? “Oh god.”

For a second Stiles thinks he’s going to die of embarrassment.

The second after that, he feels Derek’s erection pressing against the crack of his ass. Big. Hot. Damp. Stiles’s brain shorts out.

“I’m sorry.” Derek sounds mortified. He tries to roll away.

“Well now,” Peter says, reaching over Stiles to grip Derek by the hip. “Let’s not be too hasty to throw this opportunity away, hmm?”

Stiles’s breath catches in his throat.

Derek is silent.

“Stiles?” Peter asks, quirking a brow.

“Um,” Stiles says, his heart beating faster. “Um, yeah, okay. Yeah.”

Peter’s smile grows.

Smug fucker.

 

***

 

This is not a good idea.

This is probably the worst idea in the history of the world, because Derek _likes_ Stiles, okay? Sure, he’s emotionally stunted enough that the only way he’s ever been able to show it is by growling and smacking him into things—the werewolf equivalent of pulling a girl’s braids—but he really _likes_ Stiles. And no. Just no. He is not going to do anything to Stiles when:

a.     Stiles is still sick.

b.     Stiles is still a few weeks shy of eighteen.

c.     Peter is involved.

d.     All of the above. But mostly c. Actually, c times infinity.

 

“Peter,” he growls. “No.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Derek,” Peter says, rolling his eyes. “Are you seriously going to tell me you don’t want a piece of this?”

A piece?

No, Derek wants the whole damn thing, all right? And he doesn’t want to share.

Derek’s just about to open his mouth to tell him that when Stiles twists his head around, and he looks so fucking _hopeful_ that in this moment he could ask Derek to rip his own heart out of his chest and present it to him on a silver platter and Derek’s not sure he could refuse.

He resists the urge to growl and pull Stiles away from Peter. “Are you sure?” he asks, keeping his voice soft.

Stiles jerks his head in a nod, and squirms in a way that reminds Derek that his erection is pressing up against his perfect, naked, perfectly naked ass. “Yeah.”

Yep. Derek would rip his still-beating heart right out of his own chest.

Of course, he’s always had terrible judgment when it comes to getting laid.

 

***

 

Peter smiles as Derek folds like a cheap suit. And, under the weight of Stiles’s wide-eyed hopefulness, who could blame him? Peter’s certainly not enough of an asshole to refuse the kid, is he? It would be a downright cruelty to deny him. No, Peter’s being the picture of selfless generosity and charity, offering Stiles his dick. He’s Mother Fucking Teresa right now.

“Come on, princess,” he murmurs. “Give me a kiss.”

Stiles smells of sudden anxiety. Peter wonder if it’s because this is his first kiss, although that seems ridiculous. If he’d been one of Stiles’s peers, he would have been all over that long before now, but there’s no accounting for the peculiar taste of teenagers, and Stiles is, according to those in the know, something of a loser, or a nerd, or whatever. Oh well, their loss.

Or maybe—Stiles’s breath hitches as Peter presses their lips together—his anxiety is from another source altogether. Maybe it’s because Peter is taking this kiss, when Stiles had wanted it to be Derek.

Well, Peter’s quite capable of sharing.

He keeps the kiss soft and gentle and, when he’s done, takes Stiles’s jaw and angles his head so that Derek can reach him too.

Stiles squirms and moans, his dick jabbing into Peter when Derek kisses him.

When they pull apart, they both look a little shell-shocked. Both wide-eyed and breathless.

Ah, young love.

Aren’t they lucky he was here to apply enough gentle pressure to make that happen for them?

Peter’s smile grows.

Mother Fucking Teresa.

“Derek,” he says, but he keeps his gaze fixed on Stiles, “in the pocket of my jeans you’ll find some lube. Go and fetch it.”

Stiles’s tongue flicks out to dampen his bottom lip. “You carry lube around with you?”

“It pays to be prepared,” Peter tells him.

Actually, Peter had been intending on heading to The Jungle after what he’d expected would be a simple wendigo hunt the night before. There’s a bartender there Peter’s hooked up with in the past but, frankly, he’s been getting a little clingy. Seriously. Put your dick in a guy a few times, and suddenly he wants your phone number? What the hell is that about?

The mattress dips as Derek rolls out of bed.

Peter’s hears the shift in Stiles’s breathing. He’s nervous again. Can’t have that.

Peter kisses him, more forcefully this time, and seals the deal by reaching down between them to grip Stiles’s erection. Stiles jerks, and gives a high-pitched whimper that’s music to Peter’s ears.

“Peter.” His breath is hot against Peter’s lips. “Peter, Jesus, I—”

Peter leans back in and tugs Stiles’s earlobe with his teeth, sending a full-body shudder through him. “I want you to suck me off,” he says in a low voice, “while Derek fucks you.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles whispers, and Peter tightens his grip on his dick. Stiles rocks his hips back and forth urgently. “Oh my god.”

Peter takes that as a yes.

 

***

 

This is _crazy_.

This entire situation is crazy, and Stiles is crazy too. And, if he’s crazy, it’s probably good that he’s not in charge, right? Except apparently Peter is in charge, and Peter is _actually_ crazy. Or was. Okay, yeah, he probably still is. It’s not that long ago that he was a homicidal maniac. That’s something that just doesn’t go away, Stiles guesses. Still, he lets Peter flip the blankets off them and arrange him so that— Oh fuck. So that Stiles in on his hands and knees and Peter’s kneeling on the bed in front of him.

There is suddenly a lot of skin on display.

And muscle.

And other things.

Stiles blinks, and yeah, that’s Peter Hale’s dick waving in front of his face, half-mast.

This would be an excellent time to freak out.

What does Stiles do instead?

Licks his fucking lips.

Then, his face burning, he makes the mistake of looking up at Peter’s face. Peter’s smirking. Of course he is.

“That’s it, princess,” he says, his smirk cranking up a notch into an actual smile. He curls his fingers around his dick and juts his pelvis forward. “Show me how much you want it.”

Stiles is pretty sure he’s going to hell. His face still burning—Derek’s somewhere behind him, possibly even staring at his ass—he ducks his head and opens his mouth a little. Peter paints his lips with precum, and it’s warm, and bitter, and it tastes pretty much how Stiles always figured a dick would taste. What? He’s checked a few times, when he jerks off, for science. What he never expected was the jolt of lust that thrills through him just by having someone’s thick, heavy dick bumping against his tingling lips. Stiles’s own dick is so hard it almost hurts. He opens his mouth wider and sucks the head of Peter’s dick in. Lets the taste of it burst over his tongue.

Peter tangles his free hand loosely in Stiles’s hair. “That’s it, Stiles. That’s it. So good.”

A shiver runs through Stiles at the praise.

He closes his eyes and sucks harder.

 

***

 

Derek can’t move.

He’s standing there, staring, as Stiles blows Peter. Fairly inexpertly, if Derek’s any judge, but somehow that just makes it hotter. And Peter doesn’t seem to mind. His eyes are half closed and there’s a smile on his face, and he looks so fucking smug that Derek kind of wants to punch him in the head. He will too, if Peter pushes Stiles in any way. Tries to gag him on his dick or something. Because Derek wouldn’t put that past him.

Peter’s jeans fall from his numb fingers to the floor.

He’s got the lube.

He’s got the lube, and he’s staring at Stiles’s ass. Really, this is a two part jigsaw puzzle but Derek’s still having trouble putting the pieces together. Because Stiles’s ass is as fucking amazing as Derek’s always imagined it would be. He’s stared at that ass a lot before, but it’s usually been encased in jeans and hidden under several layers of baggy shirts as well. Except for lacrosse days. Derek really does love lacrosse days. But now, for the first time, he’s seeing it in the literal flesh.

He’s seeing _everything_.

Stiles is slim, but he’s not scrawny. He always jokes he is, but he’s not. He’s got the long, lean lines of a runner. He’s got muscles. He’s got swathes of pale skin dotted with moles. He’s got scars, too. It’s the scars that draw Derek closer. He wants to trace them with his fingers and put his mouth on them, in a silent apology for every single one.

A visible shudder runs through Stiles as Derek climbs back onto the bed. When Derek reaches out and touches a faint white scar on his hip, Stiles jerks and moans around Peter’s dick.

“Come on,” Peter says in a low voice, and Derek isn’t sure which one of them he’s talking to.

Derek slides his fingers down Stiles’s spine as Peter feeds him another inch of his dick.

Stiles’s skin is warm. Derek trails his fingers from his spine to the cleft of his ass. Then, his hands shaking, he tears the lube open and drizzles some onto his fingers. Stiles flinches when Derek touches his hole, and his heartbeat races.

“Is this okay?” Derek asks him, his voice rasping.

“Mmm!” Stiles pulls away from Peter. “Yes!”

Peter strokes his cheek, and then angles his head back down toward his dick. Stiles latches back on eagerly.

Derek circles his tight rim before pushing a finger inside slowly. Stiles clenches down reflexively, and Derek’s suddenly so hard he’s certain he’ll come before he even gets his dick inside that hot, tight body.

He closes his eyes and draws a deep breath. Holds it.

He can’t rush things. He wants Stiles to enjoy this.

He needs to be slow, to be patient.

Which is a pretty tall order once he slides his finger deep enough to crook it and hit Stiles’s prostate. Stiles jerks like Derek’s put a few thousand volts through him—a sensation Derek is unfortunately familiar with—and gags when he accidentally takes too much of Peter’s dick down his throat.

Peter moans. His fingers tighten in Stiles’s hair, but he makes no move to force him to take more. Derek’s almost impressed at his self-control. Or he would be, if he could think about anything other than the way Stiles is clenching around his finger, and starting to rock back and forth.

One finger becomes two, become three, and Stiles is breathing heavily and making small, urgent noises as he pushes back onto Derek’s hand.

“Come on, Derek,” Peter says, his voice straining. “Some of us don’t have all day.”

Derek swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat, and withdraws his fingers. He holds his dick in one hand, and curls the fingers of his other hand over Stiles’s hip. Holds them both steady when, at last, he pushes in.

Stiles keens around Peter’s dick. The sound is thin and high-pitched, and Derek freezes.

“No, no,” Peter says, pulling back. “Are you good, Stiles? You need to tell us you’re good.”

“‘m’good,” Stiles manages, his voice wrecked. “Oh, Jesus, _Der_. Keep going!”

Derek thinks he probably imagines the relief he sees reflected in Peter’s gaze. Since when does Peter give a fuck about anyone apart from himself?

“Good boy. Such a good boy.” Peter rubs his thumb against Stiles’s swollen lips. “Give him what he wants, Derek.”

Derek pushes in deeper, and Stiles opens up around him. It’s incredible. Beyond incredible. It’s everything he ever imagined, and more.

“Derek.” Stiles is trembling. “God, Derek!”

Derek leans over him and presses his mouth to his shoulder. “Stiles.”

Stiles shivers underneath him.

 

***

 

Things are going exceedingly well, even if Peter does say so himself. Really, the moment they’re done here, Peter’s going to give himself a well-deserved pat on the back. Stiles is _incredible_. A little unpracticed, a little clumsy, but enthusiasm like his can’t be taught. The kid is a natural, and Peter deserves a medal for encouraging him to divest himself of that pesky virginity. Or at least a gift certificate or something from Derek. Because he has no doubt whatsoever that Derek’s the one who’s really going to benefit from Stiles’s personal growth. As long as he doesn’t open his mouth and say the wrong thing and completely fuck everything up. Which, knowing Derek, is entirely possible.

Peter strokes Stiles’s wet lips while he adjusts himself to Derek’s rhythm and murmurs enough gentle praise to soothe the trace of the worried frown off his forehead. He’s not hurting—Peter can tell that from his heartbeat and his scent—but he’s definitely feeling it, and his inexperience is still working against him at this point. He’s not in pain, but he’s undoubtedly worried that he _might_ be, any second now. Over thinkers. What can Peter do except gentle him through these first fraught minutes until he’s happy to get his mouth around his dick again?

See? Peter’s a _saint_.

It doesn’t take long for Stiles to start rocking into Derek’s thrusts. His mouth goes slack and his lovely eyes glaze over. Peter grins at him, and presents him with his dick again. Stiles laps at the head, and sucks it back in.

_Incredible._

Peter doesn’t push. He comes up against Stiles’s gag reflex once, then twice, and Derek’s low growl warns him not to force it. Really, Derek’s like a protective mother hen instead of a wolf. He’s a hopeless case, but Peter’s a saint _and_ a gentleman, so he cedes to his nephew’s authority. Peter’s known, probably since before Derek even did, that Derek’s wolf has claimed Stiles. He respects that, and it’s not as though he _needs_ Stiles to deep throat him in order to get off. Not at all. He’s got his hand wrapped around his shaft, stroking it, and leaving the rest for Stiles to take care of. And Stiles is taking care of things admirably. His mouth is hot and warm, and sweet Jesus, the _suction_. Peter’s skin prickles with goose bumps, and pleasure is coiling tight in his belly and his balls.

He idly wonders whether to come in Stiles’s mouth or on his face.

Stiles would look fucking wrecked with Peter’s cum all over his pretty face.

So maybe Peter’s not really a gentleman about _everything_.

 

***

 

What is his life, even?

He’s sucking Peter Hale’s dick, and Derek Hale is fucking him.

Who the hell _is_ he?

Stiles really, really doesn’t care, because it feels so _good_.

This is awesome. Stiles doesn’t even have words for how awesome this is. He’s not even touching his dick, and he’s ready to come. This is better than any dirty fantasy he’s ever had. This is better than fucking _Christmas_.

He’s moaning Derek name, and how filthy and wrong is it that it’s muffled on Peter’s dick?

Holy fucking hell.

Whatever is happening here, however he got to this point, Stiles just wants it to last forever.

 

***

 

Derek thrusts, feeling Stiles clench and push back against him. He smells so good: arousal and sweat and heady desperation. He’s beautiful. So beautiful.

 

***

 

The face. Definitely the face.

Peter pulls out as he feels himself start to come. His dick slips out of Stiles’s mouth with an obscene pop, and then he’s spurting thin ropes of cum over Stiles’s face. Stiles is wide-eyed and open mouthed, panting. He blinks as a glob of cum slides down his cheek and catches on the corner of his mouth. His tongue darts out to scoop it up.

Gorgeous.

Peter sprawls back and tries to catch his breath.

Just gorgeous.

 

***

 

Derek growls. He slides his arms under Stiles’s, and leans back, drawing Stiles with him. The sudden shift changes the angle of penetration, and they both gasp. Derek hugs Stiles tight to his chest, rolling his hips. Stiles shudders and moans.

Peter, narrow-eyed, shifts forward. He licks his palm, and reaches down to wrap his fingers around Stiles’s dick.

Derek growls again, possessive, but allows it.

Stiles cries out as Peter starts to jerk him off. The scent of his arousal, and of Peter's cum, is sharp in the air. Derek feels his fangs start to drop.

“Not his first time, nephew,” Peter says in a low tone. His eyes flash.

Derek huffs a breath against the juncture of Stiles’s throat and shoulder, but he knows Peter’s right.

“Wh-what?” Stiles manages.

“He wants to knot you,” Peter says.

“Th-that’s a _thing_?” Stiles tightens around Derek’s dick. “Holy shit!”

“Oh, princess,” Peter tells him with a grin, “you have so much to learn about wolves. But all in good time, hmm?”

Stiles moans as Peter continues to jerk him off. He swivels his hips, trying to urge Peter to go faster, to match Derek’s rhythm. Peter’s smile says he knows exactly what he wants, but Peter’s an asshole and refuses to give him what he needs. He’s obviously having too much fun keeping Stiles on edge.

An asshole or a genius, Derek’s not sure.

Probably both.

Derek licks a line up Stiles’s throat, feeling his pulse beat fast against his tongue. He’s close. They both are.

“Peter,” he growls. “Make him come.”

 

***

 

Stiles screams when he comes, he thinks.

He possibly even passes out.

All he knows is that there’s suddenly cum _everywhere_ , and at least some of it is his, and it should be disgusting, but he feels too good to be disgusted. And way too fucking tired.

Everything is sticky and tingly and awesome.

Stiles wants that on his headstone.

He tries to tell Derek that, but Derek only huffs what might be a laugh against his throat, and then he’s rolling them over so that they’re lying down again and he’s cuddling Stiles against his chest.

He’s a cuddler.

Could Stiles’s day get any more awesome?

They kiss lazily, and Stiles drifts off to sleep.

 

***

 

Derek lies awake listening to Stiles’s heartbeat, and to Peter humming as he dresses.

_Oh god._

What the hell just happened?

And what the hell happens next?

“Don’t,” Peter says in a quiet, amused tone.

Derek twists his head to glare at him. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t piss all over the afterglow,” Peter says, then purses his mouth thoughtfully. “Unless that’s something you’re into. In which case, piss away.”

Derek curls his lip.

Peter raises his brows. “Don’t over think it, Derek. You want him, and he wants you. It literally could not be simpler.”

“And where are you in this equation?” Derek asks, hating himself for the resentment against Peter that’s already growing inside him.

“Well, I wouldn’t refuse a repeat performance,” Peter says. “But that’s up to both of you. Until then, I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

Derek really doesn’t believe that. Not for a second.

Peter fishes his cell phone out of his pocket. “In the meantime, I’ll leave you two alone and see how far I have to walk to get a signal.”

Derek nods curtly, and tightens his grip on Stiles. Stiles snuffles like a little animal when he sleeps. It’s sort of adorable.

“I’m serious, Derek,” Peter says. “Don’t over think this. This could be good for you.”

Derek doesn’t really have an answer for that.

 

***

 

Peter whistles to himself as he heads toward the ruined remains of the car.

Not that he needs to get that far to get a signal.

Really, if Derek hadn’t been panicking last night, he would have thought to check his own phone, and seen that they had service this whole time.

But where would the fun have been in that?

Okay, maybe Peter’s not such a saint after all.

But he gets the job done.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Peter has created a monster.

Ever since he helped little Stiles Stilinski shed his inhibitions in the most interesting ways back at that cabin in the woods, the boy has been changed. Really, all it took was a dick in his mouth and the encouragement to take another one up the ass, and it’s like the dull little caterpillar has broken out of its plaid chrysalis and transformed into a magical slutty butterfly.

Peter couldn’t be more proud.

He really couldn’t.

Stiles is happy, which means that Derek should be happy, so why then is Derek still shooting him death stares? Habit?

Peter ponders it during a pack meeting in late January.

It’s been a little over a month since the cabin, and Peter’s been a perfect gentleman. He bowed out of the situation as soon as it became apparent that Stiles and Derek only had eyes for each other. Peter’s not bitter about it. In fact, he’d known when he’d orchestrated the entire thing—well, not the entire thing. Even Peter can’t manipulate someone into getting hypothermia—that he’d have to hightail it out of there as soon as they were done, before Derek got all possessive and murdery. Which is exactly what he’d done, so why the death stares from Derek now?

And why is Stiles looking at him thoughtfully and chewing his lip, as though Peter just might be the solution to some difficult problem he’s been wrestling with?

Peter can safely say that he’s never been the solution to anyone’s problems.

Cause, yes.

Solution, no.

Peter leans back in his chair and taps his fingers on his knee. He tunes out the histrionic teenagers—really, Derek should consider upgrading the pack to actual adults—and ponders.

Peter has always been very good at reading people, and at navigating the shifting sands of duplicity and changing alliances. Really, co-ordinating a threesome involving himself, his as-yet-undiagnosed-with-anger-issues nephew, and the awkward virginal teenage boy his nephew was head over heels in love with had been child’s play to someone like Peter Hale.

Except he’s missing something.

Frankly, Stiles should blush as bright as a fire hydrant whenever Peter’s stare lingers on his mouth.

And frankly, Derek should be much more relaxed now he’s getting laid regularly, and this time not by a homicidal bitch from hell. The poor boy has a type, and he should be thankful Peter steered him away from it with Stiles.

Except Stiles isn’t blushing, and Derek isn’t relaxed.

So what is Peter missing?

It occurs to him when he’s watching Scott McCall try and lace his sneakers at the end of the night. One of the laces is knotted, and won’t pull through.

Stiles glares at Scott’s laces like they’re personally offending him, and that’s when Peter realizes. Oh, he appears as bored and unaffected as always, but on the inside he’s suddenly dying with laughter.

It’s all so suddenly clear.

And it’s _hilarious_.

 

***

 

Peter stays to help with the dishes.

Derek is naturally suspicious. Well, he’s suspicious of Peter at the best of times, but when Peter actually volunteers to help with something? That just cranks the dial from baseline suspicion all the way up to legitimate, healthy paranoia.

Peter hums a little as he scrubs the dishes, an irritatingly jaunty tune that makes Derek want to punch him in the head.

The list of things that make Derek want to punch Peter is the head is ever-expanding, actually. Derek’s been updating it since he was about five. It could fill the Library of Congress by now.

Stiles is hanging around out by the couch. Derek can hear him flicking through his frankly scant DVD collection.

Peter scrubs intently at a speck on a plate, and smirks. It’s that smirk that finally breaks Derek’s composure.

“What?” he growls.

Peter looks innocent. “Excuse me?”

“What are you doing?” Derek demands in a low voice.

“Well, it’s cheese, Derek. If you don’t get it off right away, it’ll set.”

Derek rolls his eyes.

“Actually,” Peter says, “I stayed behind because I hoped we could have a little talk.”

“A little talk about what?”

Peter’s gaze is too knowing. Derek hates that. “A little talk about your little problem with Stiles.”

Derek turns his head sharply, suddenly afraid that Stiles can hear them. He can’t though. He’s still flicking through the DVDs. His heartbeat’s still as steady as it’s been all night, even though his scent is tinged with a little anxiety. Derek hates that as well. He knows he’s the reason for Stiles’s anxiety. He knows Stiles is afraid he’s done something wrong, just because Derek can’t...

It’s Peter’s damn fault for telling him about knotting in the first place.

Peter sets the plate in the drying rack and then leans back against the counter. He folds his arms over his chest. “You can either growl at me and threaten to rip my throat out, or you can actually let me give you the benefit of my experience here. Your choice.”

Derek really, really wants to pick the first option. Instead, he deflates a little. “I really don’t want to talk about this with you.”

“I understand,” Peter says, and he actually sounds sincere. Derek doesn’t trust it for a second. “But you don’t have many other options when it comes to asking advice from older wolves who’ve probably been exactly where you are and struggled with exactly the same... issues.”

Derek bristles. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lies.

Peter sighs. “Really? How about this? You want to knot Stiles, and he wants you to do it, but you’re terrified you’re going to hurt him. Is that about the sum of it?”

Oh god.

It’s worse than Derek’s ever imagined.

Not only is Peter a lying, manipulative sociopathic asshole of the highest order, he’s also a mindreader.

_Deny! Deny everything!_

Except Derek opens his mouth and the words don’t come. A growl comes, but it’s not mean and threatening. It’s kind of pathetic.

Peter sighs again. “Oh dear.”

Derek wants to crawl away and die now, please, and preserve any remaining dignity he’s got. Which is none, obviously.

“Well,” Peter says. “if you’re ever ready to discuss this, you know where to find me.”

Then, pausing only to give Derek a gentle pat on the shoulder and a condescending smile, he leaves the kitchen.

 

***

 

Peter’s almost at the door when Stiles realises he’s leaving.

“Hey,” he says, trying for a casual tone.

 _Hey?_ Jesus. Except how are you supposed to greet the guy you lost your virginity to in an unexpected but totally hot as fuck threesome? Stiles is pretty sure there’s no etiquette guide in the world that can help him with this.

Peter turns, and smiles. “Stiles.”

It’s so unfair that Peter’s smile goes straight to his dick the way it does.

Stiles clears his throat. “Are you taking off?”

“Mmm.” Peter’s smile inches up a few degrees. “I tried to have a man to man talk with Derek, and I think I made him uncomfortable.”

“Oh,” says Stiles. He chews his lip for a second. He really shouldn’t ask, but he just can’t help himself. Cat, meet curiosity. “A man to man talk about what?”

Peter makes some sort of vague gesture. “Oh, you know. _Things_.”

Jesus. It’s ridiculous. He knows Peter’s just reeling him in, and the only way to avoid being caught is to ignore the obvious capital-B Bait, but for all that he’s smart, sometimes Stiles is dumb as shit. Because pretty much the whole world knows the best way to engage Stiles is to hint that something is none of his business.

“Is it about _me_?” Stiles demands.

Peter looks just as vague. “Well, I suppose, in a manner of speaking...”

“Cut the crap, Peter,” Stiles says, folding his arms over his chest. “If it’s about me, then I deserve to know.”

“You do,” Peter says, far too agreeably. “Although it’s not about you, _per se_. It’s more about Derek and his issues with certain aspects of intimacy.”

Stiles’s breath catches.

That can only mean one thing.

 _Knotting_.

They were talking about knotting?

Because ever since Peter mentioned it, Stiles hasn’t been able to get it out of his head. He’s gotten kind of obsessed about it, like little-kid levels of obsession, which is kind of a weird comparison, but hey. It’s just like when he was five and his mom bought candy at the grocery store, and then put it out of his reach when they got home.

_“No, sweetheart, that’s for later.”_

Later? Fuck later. It was right there, and he _wanted_ it, and obviously his mom knew he was going to take it anyway, or otherwise she wouldn’t have let him see the packet. Right?

Stiles’s first trip to the hospital was when he’d crashed to the floor after climbing to get that candy, and hit the corner of the kitchen counter on the way down. He counted it as a win. He got his candy. He also got four stitches and a concussion, but hey, _candy_. Stiles learned at a very early age that stubbornness and a reckless disregard for his own safety get him all the treats.

He takes the bait.

Of course he does.

“Was it about why won’t Derek knot me?”

Stiles gets the faintest flash of satisfaction from seeing the look on Peter’s face that he just jumped right on in, before the sudden crash of pots and pans from inside the kitchen makes him realize that Peter’s not the only one surprised by the question.

Werewolf hearing.

 _Oh shit_.

 

***

 

Peter folds his arms over his chest as Derek comes tearing out of the kitchen like a dervish.

“No!” Derek says, jabbing a finger in Peter’s direction. Then he turns around to Stiles. “And no!”

Stiles huffs. “I was just _asking_!”

“He was just asking,” Peter agrees, trying, and failing, to contain his smirk.

“I am not having this discussion with you, Peter!” Derek snarls.

“Have it with me then,” Stiles says, jutting out his chin.

Oh, Peter _likes_ Stiles. The boy never backs down from a challenge, even when he should. Humans are so fragile and squishy. Stiles has all the attitude of a much hardier creature. It’s either ambitious or deluded. Whatever it is, Peter approves.

Derek glowers.

“Look,” Stiles says. “Peter knows what he’s talking about, right? Right?”

“Right.” Derek grunts, and Peter almost laughs at what that must have cost him to admit out loud.

“Okay.” Stiles stands up from the couch and crosses to Derek. Twines their fingers together and then lifts Derek’s hand so he can brush his mouth against their knuckles. “So, so let’s just listen to him. What harm can listening do?”

Peter’s reminded of a story about a woman and a talkative snake, but he decides not to mention it.

Derek looks like he’s seriously considering flinging himself out a window. “Fine,” he says at last. “We’ll listen.”

Stiles looks at Peter expectantly.

“Well,” Peter says. “It’s really quite simple. If knotting is something you both want to experience, then it would be helpful to have someone there who understands the process and can talk you through it.”

“Like, like a _mentor_?” Stiles asks, his teeth worrying his bottom lip.

“Yes,” Peter says. “Someone to be there with a clearer head, to make sure it’s done right. To make sure it’s good for both of you.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, but Peter knows he’s nailed it. Derek’s greatest fear is that he’ll hurt Stiles too, just like he’s hurt everyone he ever cared about. Really, it’s a broad target. Peter could hit it with his eyes closed and one hand tied behind his back.

Stiles frowns a little. “That, um, that sounds...reasonable? Derek?”

When Derek doesn’t answer straight away, Peter knows he’s won.

“Well,” he says with what he hopes is an encouraging smile. “Shall we take this discussion somewhere more comfortable?”

Really, Peter thinks as he follows them toward the spiral staircase that leads up toward Derek’s room, they’re no challenge at all.

 

***

 

Derek would never admit it, not even to himself, but there’s something strangely empowering about watching another man undress Stiles. Maybe it’s the way that Stiles pinks up with a blush, and keeps glancing over at Derek looking for silent assurance that this is okay. He’s suddenly shy, his scent sharp with anxiety, and it’s Derek his gaze is seeking. Peter might be the one touching him, but Derek knows that Stiles is totally focussed on him.

Derek sits on the edge of his bed and tugs his t-shirt off. His dick is already hard, pressing up painfully against the seam in his jeans.

Peter unwraps Stiles like he’s a Christmas present. His flannel shirt goes first, sliding off his shoulders and landing in a pool of red plaid behind him. Stiles swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Derek can hear his heartbeat quicken.

Peter smiles at Stiles, reaching down to take the hem of his t-shirt in his fingers. Stiles looks to Derek again, and Derek nods. Stiles draws a shaking breath—loud in the laden silence of the bedroom—and lifts his arms so Peter can draw his shirt over his head.

Peter moves around behind him.

Derek fights the urge to growl as Peter puts his hands on Stiles’s hips. Then Peter turns him slightly so he’s facing Derek, and Derek can’t help think of a beta presenting a gift to his alpha. Some fresh kill, warm and sweet. He can see Stiles’s chest rising and falling rapidly. Can see Stiles’s erection pushing against his jeans.

Peter leans in behind him. “Shoes, princess.”

Stiles blinks, as though he doesn’t quite know what Peter means. Then he seems to jerk awake, toeing off his old Converse. He’s wearing the Batman socks Derek bought him. When he leans down to tug them off, his hands are shaking.

Peter runs a hand down his bare spine, and Derek swallows down a growl.

Stiles straightens up again. His wide gaze catches Derek’s.

Derek nods at him slightly, and Stiles’s scent loses some of its sour sharpness. He closes his eyes briefly as Peter pops the button on his jeans, but opens them again and holds Derek’s gaze.

The zip rasps as Peter tugs it slowly open. Then Stiles’s jeans and boxer briefs are in a tangle around his ankles. Stiles moves his hands to cover himself, but Peter catches his wrists.

“No need for modesty, sweetheart,” he purrs low in Stiles’s ear. “Show Derek what a lucky man he is.”

Stiles flushes, and he looks so shy and beautiful that Derek’s breath catches.

Derek stands, quickly divesting himself of his own jeans and underwear. Then he climbs onto the bed, shifting up so that he’s sitting with his back against the headboard.

“Stiles,” he says. “Come here.”

Stiles tugs free of Peter, and then he’s in Derek’s arms. They’re kissing, bodies pressed together, and Stiles is warm and shivering and so very, very ready for this. Derek can’t wait to get his dick in him. Can’t wait to hear him moan and writhe as he’s spread with his knot. There’s a part of Derek that wants to make him scream.

 

***

 

Stiles hasn’t been doing this with Derek enough that he’s totally relaxed about all this nudity and erections and whatnot. He’s new at this, okay? He’s an enthusiastic beginner rather than an expert, for sure. But he’s had sex with Derek enough to know that this time already feels different, and it’s not just Peter being here that’s throwing the dynamic off. Derek’s kisses are a little rougher than usual. His fingers, when they dig into Stiles’s hips, are tipped with claws. And when they kiss, he’s sure there’s a hint of fangs. Derek’s not in his shift, but it’s like it’s waiting right there under the surface of his skin. He seems more like a wolf now than he has any other time they’ve done this.

“Der?” he whispers as he leans in for another kiss.

Derek’s eyes are alpha red.

Stiles gasps.

 

***

 

Peter smirks as Stiles has his Little Red moment. _Oh my, what big teeth you have, Derek_. Seriously, the boy’s been running for wolves for years now, and fucking one for weeks, and now he’s suddenly remembered he’s prey? How cute.

“It’s all right,” Peter says, his tone calm. “Derek?”

Derek shakes his head as though to clear it, his eyes returning to their usual color.

Peter doesn’t regret his nephew’s little lapse at all. Not when it will so helpfully sell his case for him. Peter Hale, friendly knotting mentor. He should get that on business cards.

He undresses, collects the lube from Derek’s bedside drawer, then kneels on the end of the bed.

Stiles makes a pretty picture for him, his pale skin dotted with moles. He’s clinging to Derek still, and a shiver runs through him as Peter curls his fingers gently around his ankle.

“Have to get you ready, princess,” Peter says, keeping his voice low.

Stiles nods and swallows, his throat clicking. The scent of his nervousness is as sharp as citrus. He turns in Derek’s embrace, hiding his face in the crook of Derek’s neck. Derek rubs small circles on his back.

Peter encourages Stiles to get his knees under himself, to raise himself up so that Peter can reach that delectable ass.

Jesus. That ass. Peter wants to spank it, just to watch the muscles jump. And then he wants to bite it, just to hear Stiles moan. He wants to _wreck_ it. He settles for sliding his palms gently over the smooth, warm flesh, and slipping a finger into the crease. Stiles shivers and gasps.

“Derek,” Peter says. “This may be an awkward time to bring it up, but I really want to put my dick in your boyfriend.”

“Wh-what!” Stiles squeaks.

Derek growls and hauls him closer.

Peter shows him his palms. “I’m just being honest. And, really, fingers, dick, what’s the difference?”

“He’s mine,” Derek growls.

“Actually,” Peter says mildly, “he’s _his_. If you can’t get control of that possessive side of the beast then, trust me, this evening will not go well.”

Stiles squirms, twisting so that he can glare at Peter. “What do you mean?”

“A knot isn’t a fun little plaything, Stiles,” Peter tells him. “The purpose of it in dogs is to literally keep a bitch from escaping. It’s, well, it’s really quite brutal. You need to be totally relaxed, and Derek needs to be gentle and not rut into you like some crazed animal. Otherwise, this is only going to end in tears. Tears, and possibly bloodshed.”

“Oh, shit,” Stiles whispers, his heart rate ratcheting up. “Are you serious?”

“Completely,” Peter says.

Derek doesn’t contradict him. He remembers that much from The Talk with his parents then. Knotting is a wolf thing, sure, but even then it needs to be done with a little care. And Stiles does not have the constitution of a wolf. Derek can’t afford to be as rough with him as his more bestial side might want. And, when the knot comes out, that’ll be the side of him in charge. So it’s absolutely the truth when Peter says that Derek needs to tone down the possessive bullshit. The hint that he overcome his jealousy by letting Peter fuck Stiles too? Well, it’s a little unorthodox, but Peter has always been a creative thinker.

“I can control the wolf!” Derek snarls. The accompanying growl does him no favors.

“Are you sure, Derek?” Peter asks mildly. “More to the point, are _you_ , sure. Stiles?”

The doubt in Stiles’s eyes is a beautiful, beautiful thing. “I don’t...” He swallows and lifts his gaze to Derek. “Der?”

“I would never hurt you,” Derek says, and cups Stiles’s cheek.

“Intentionally,” Peter says. “You would never hurt him intentionally.”

He lets the weight of that word sink in.

And waits.

 

***

 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Derek whispers, cradling Stiles’s head in his hands. Maybe they should just put a stop to this right now. If Stiles isn’t comfortable, then they’ll stop. They’ll pretend it never happened.

“You won’t,” Stiles whispers. “You won’t.”

Derek loves that Stiles is so trusting, even though he knows that trust is misplaced. “Stiles...”

Stiles swallows. “If Peter says... I mean, if it’s okay, he could, _we_ could... If this is the way we have to.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I _am_ yours though.”

“I know.” Derek kisses him. “I know you are.”

“Okay.” Stiles’s face hardens in determination. He keeps his gaze on Derek. “Do it, Peter.”

 

***

 

Last time they did this, Peter stayed away from Stiles’s ass. This time, he slides a lubed finger into that tight heat, twisting it and crooking it until Stiles moans and shudders. Jesus. If Peter had known the boy was this tight, maybe he wouldn’t have so generously pushed him toward his nephew. Still, that’s a hollow fantasy. Stiles probably likes to cuddle or something after sex. Or, worse, talk. Peter doesn’t need that kind of hassle. He likes to fuck and leave, and he happens to be an expert at both.

“That’s it, princess,” he says, withdrawing his finger and then pushing two back in. “Making you ready for your alpha’s knot. You’re going to love it.”

He’s careful to couch everything in terms of knotting, and of Derek. Fucking Stiles won’t ever be something he brags about, not even in this room. Especially not in this room. The last thing Peter wants is for Derek to rip his throat out. He’s done it before, and it’s not one of Peter’s most fond memories. So today he’ll play the helpful beta, just getting Stiles ready for the main event. Peter’s sense of self-preservation far outweighs his ego.

Stiles shivers and writhes as Peter pegs his prostate again, and Peter suppresses a groan. Jesus, he needs to get his dick inside him.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he says, taking his dick in his hand and rubbing it against Stiles’s wet hole. “Let’s get you properly stretched out for Derek’s knot.”

Stiles shudders.

 

***

 

Fingers, dick, what’s the difference?

Stiles gasps when Peter replaces three of his fingers with the huge, hot head of his dick and slowly pushes in. The difference is fucking seismic, and for a second Stiles is terrified this is a horrible mistake, and what if Derek will hate him for it? What if he’ll hate himself? It just feels so fucking _good_ though, as Peter slides slowly inside him.

Stiles grips Derek’s shoulders tightly. “Derek?”

Derek’s not looking at Peter. His gaze is fixed on Stiles’s face, and there is something so incredibly fucking tender about his expression that Stiles feels all his fears shatter like glass.

“Der,” Stiles whispers, shuddering as the head of Peter’s dick brushes his prostate.

“I’m opening him for you, Derek,” Peter groans from somewhere behind him. “He’s too tight to take a knot right now, but he’ll be ready soon.”

Derek kisses him gently. “So beautiful.”

Stiles clenches around Peter’s dick. “God, Derek!”

Peter curls his fingers around his hips and begins to thrust. His rhythm is slow and smooth at first, and Stiles arches his back and pushes back to meet each thrust. His dick is hard, bobbing heavily between his spread legs, and his balls are already drawn up tight. God, it’s so good. It’s different to Derek. Derek’s never fucked him like this, except for the time in the cabin. Derek likes Stiles on his back underneath him, or riding him so they can kiss. Now, his knees are getting a little sore from taking his weight, and Peter’s. Doesn’t mean it’s not blowing his goddamn mind though.

Derek kisses him, and Stiles almost wants to laugh.

Derek’s kiss is rougher than usual, a little more desperate, and Stiles shivers as Derek nips and then tugs at his bottom lip. He moans and gives himself to the kiss, to Derek, to every bit of pleasure that’s shooting through his body, setting his nerves on fire and coiling tight in his belly. He feels so good. So exposed, and at the same time so loved. This might be weird and this might be filthy, and okay, sure, so he’s fucking himself back onto Peter’s dick while he’s kissing Derek, but it’s _good_. This isn’t even about Peter. Peter who? All Stiles can see is Derek. Derek is everything in this moment, and Stiles knows that he’s everything to Derek as well.

It’s like Peter—Peter fucking Hale, the guy with his dick in Stiles’s ass—isn’t even in the same _universe_.

So weird.

And so fucking hot.

“Stiles,” Derek whispers. His breath is hot against Stiles’s face. His eyes are alpha red again, but this time Stiles doesn’t flinch back. “You’re incredible.”

Stiles shivers as Peter’s dick hits his prostate again. “Derek. Der.”

Peter grunts, and grips Stiles’s hips tightly as he comes.

Stiles doesn’t even break Derek’s gaze.

 

***

 

Derek has never seen anyone as beautiful as Stiles, and it has nothing to do with his looks. It’s the way his gaze never leaves Derek’s face. It’s the way his eyes are so full of trust. It’s the way he gives Derek everything, without even knowing. His shyness, his nakedness, his total vulnerability, and trusts Derek with all of those things. He’s so different here than he is in other parts of his life, where he’s loud and sarcastic and full of pointed edges. Here, he’s not afraid to show his weaknesses. Derek has never been with anyone like that before. There is nothing in Stiles that is not a revelation.

Nothing.

Stiles shivers as Peter comes, riding his own pleasure but not quite there. A small moan escapes him as Peter pulls out. Stiles is warm, his blood running hot underneath his damp skin. His pupils are big, almost swallowing up his amber irises. He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, leaving it shining.

And then he’s moving, Peter manipulating his shaking limbs so that he’s straddling Derek. His knees come to rest on either side of Derek’s hips.

“Ready, princess?” Peter asks in a gravelly voice.

“Mmm.” Stiles shudders as Peter helps him lower himself.

He’s so hot, so ready. He clenches around Derek’s dick as he settles himself. Peter keeps one hand on his back. Derek holds his hips and rocks into him. Stiles arches like a cat.

“Derek.” His breath hitches. “Derek. _Der_.”

Derek thrusts into him gently. This position isn’t suited for anything faster, but this is enough. Stiles is open and warm and pliant, and this is going to take a while.

Derek feels his knot begin to swell.

His wolf howls in triumph.

 

***

 

Stiles is almost drifting, weak and boneless with pleasure. It’s coiling tightly in his belly. He hasn’t come yet, but for some reason he’s not desperate to. He feels like he’s riding a wave that’s never going to crest. The rhythm is gentle but powerful. Stiles lets it lull him. It takes him a moment to realize that Derek’s growing bigger inside him as his knot swells. At first he hardly notices. Then Derek’s knot catches on his rim, and sparks of pleasure rush through him.

Derek thrusts a few more times, and suddenly the knot is huge, and it’s inside him, and it’s going to stay inside him until they’re done.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, fear flashing through him.

Peter’s hand on his back is big and warm. “It’s okay. It’s okay, princess. You can take it.”

Stiles rests his trembling hands on Derek’s shoulders. “Is it going to get bigger?”

“Hmm.” Peter rubs the back of his neck soothingly. “A little, yes. But you can take it. You can make yourself come on your alpha’s knot. Show him that you can. Show him how much you like it.”

Stiles doesn’t even need to clench. Derek is _huge_. Stiles raises himself up a fraction, feeling the knot tug at his rim, and then he’s coming, arching his back as he shoots all over Derek’s abdomen and chest.

All at once the knot seems too big for his over-sensitized body. He whimpers, and tries to pull away. Derek’s eyes flash alpha red and he growls.

Peter rubs his back. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Don’t try and fight it. Just relax.”

Stiles shivers, feeling suddenly cold. “It’s still getting bigger!” His voice hitches.

Derek growls again, more questioning than angry. He rubs his hands up Stiles’s sides, leaving warmth behind.

“What a good boy you are, princess,” Peter says, his voice soothing. “Tell him. Derek.”

Stiles blinks through his tears.

“Good,” Derek growls out through a mouthful of fangs.

“That’s it,” Peter says. “He won’t hurt you, Stiles. Just relax for him.”

Stiles draws a deep breath and then releases it slowly. Okay, it’s not, it’s not _bad_. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s more full than he’s ever felt before, and the pressure is still growing. It doesn’t hurt, but he’s suddenly terrified that it _will_ , and he won’t be able to do anything to stop it. He digs his trembling fingers into Derek’s shoulders.

“Good,” Derek growls again, and then he’s coming.

“Oh, god!” Stiles feels _heat_ , and it’s not stopping. He slips one hand down to his dick, and jerks it. When he comes again, he clenches so hard around Derek’s knot that for a bright, burning second he can’t tell the difference between pleasure and pain. They both coil tight inside him, cresting, and finally breaking.

Stiles slumps forward into Derek’s embrace.

He’s vaguely aware that somehow, impossibly, Derek’s _still_ coming.

 

***

 

Stiles really is an impossible little human. Peter feels his mouth curl into a smile as he watches Stiles’s fingers twitch against Derek’s sheets. Seeing him basically fucked into unconsciousness—his eyes are open as his cheek rests on Derek’s shoulder, but he’s staring somewhere into the middle distance like a stoner—almost makes Peter wish he had a little human of his own to fuck exclusively.

Almost.

Peter slides a hand down Stiles’s spine, then meets Derek’s gaze. “You’ll be knotted for anywhere between twenty and thirty minutes. You can probably get him to come at least once more before you’re done.”

Stiles moans slightly.

“Or maybe you should just give him a break,” Peter says.

Derek’s eyes are still red.

“You did well,” Peter tells him, and actually means it. “Your wolf took him without injuring him. You should be proud of that.”

Derek hugs Stiles closer, jostling him a little. Stiles is limp, tiny aftershocks sending tremors through him.

“Knotting is just like anything else,” Peter says. “Care and practice. I’m sure you’ll have him screaming and riding you like a champ the next time you try it. The boy’s a natural, and your wolf isn’t the feral beast I thought it might be.”

Derek nods slightly, and his eyes very slowly close.

“I’ll see myself out,” Peter says softly.

He dresses quickly, and takes one more look at them before he leaves the room.

Stiles is a delight of loose limbs and slack muscles, still spread on Derek’s knot. Derek’s eyes are closed, but he’s smoothing his hands gently up and down Stiles’s back. His usually tight mouth is open slightly, his lips curved with the ghost of a smile.

It’s almost heart warming.

Well, it would be if Peter had a heart.

He whistles as he heads back down the stairs.

He doesn’t have to be there to know exactly what’s going to happen next.

He’s grinning by the time he leaves the loft.

 

***

 

“I love you,” Derek whispers in the quiet.

Stiles closes his eyes and listens to the sound of Derek’s heart. “I love you too.”

They drift off to sleep, still joined together.

It feels like the start of forever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so it turns out the cure for writer's block is porn. 
> 
> Thanks, porn!
> 
> Also, I keep forgetting to tell people I'm now on tumblr:[thisdiscontentedwinter](http://thisdiscontentedwinter.tumblr.com)


End file.
